Pays détesté
by SafetyScissors
Summary: France x Jeanne d'Arc. France is horrified to find out that a woman is leading his army...Jeanne is equally horrified that she has to work with a perverted idiot. Surely, this will never work?
1. Danse

**France x Jeanne d'Arc doesn't get enough love. This is my first fanfic focusing on a pairing though, so please forgive me. If I make any mistakes, please point them out. If it's about historical accuracy, though, I did my research on this, and then dutifully ignored it. The weapons and stuff are all accurate though. **

**I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, which should be obvious. **

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><p>Jeanne trailed her fingers across the cold stone walls of the castle hall. She was lost, though she hated to admit it. The nice attendant had assured her the lavatory was just down the hall...<p>

Rounding a corner, she gasped and almost fell over as she ran into a man coming from the opposite direction. Luckily, he caught her shoulders and pulled her upright.

"Ohonhonhon! What do we have here?" The stranger grasped her chin and turned her face this way and that.

Jeanne pushed herself away, blushing furiously. "Excuse me_, monsieur, _but I must be going..."

"Are you lost, my dear?" the man asked, unabashed. He leaned close, so close that Jeanne could feel his warm breath on her cheek. "I never turn down a chance to help a lady in distress."

Jeanne brought her knee up, straight into the perverts groin. His expression turned to that of horror, and he fell over, clutching at himself.

That was the first time Jeanne d'Arc met her country.

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><p>"Jeanne! You must dance!" The king clapped his hands together.<p>

"Sire, surely you want me to go soon?" Jeanne pleaded. The king flapped his hand at her, waving her off. "Soon enough, but you must meet your army, _non_?"

"My army? But surely, the soldiers would not be here?"

"Of course not!" The king laughed. "Only the important ones, generals and such. Oh, you simply must dance the leader of the army, a charming ma-"

"With all due respect," Jeanne interrupted, "I thought I was the leader of the army."

"Former leader, then." His eyes flashed in anger. "Really Jeanne, you must listen! Now go, dance!"

"But-"

"No buts!"

Jeanne sighed in resignation. "Where is this man?" she asked dutifully.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll find you. You are very pretty,after all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jeanne exclaimed, but the king was already gone, whisked away in the crowd of dancing partners.

She whirled around as someone whispered in her ear. "King Charles is right, my dear." The stranger managed to dodge her slap and grasp her wrist, pulling her close to his chest.

"Very feisty!" He laughed. "I think I will enjoy this dance." He slid an arm around her waist, and Jeanne shuddered as his prying fingers grasped her side.

"What is your name, lovely lady?" he asked, spinning her around to match the dance being performed by countless lovers in the hall.

"Jeanne," she answered through gritted teeth, trying to concentrate on dancing correctly, though extra effort was made to stamp on the man's feet.

"Beautiful," he whispered, leaning in closer to her face. Jeanne became uncomfortably aware of how much taller he was than her.

"And what is yours?"

"Francis Bonnefoy!" he grinned. "At least, that's what my friends call me."

"Good faith*****..." Jeanne muttered. "It doesn't suit you."

Francis burst into laughter again, but not his strange _Ohonhonhon. _It was genuine, and way too loud. Curious faces stared at them. Jeanne flushed furiously and looked away.

"Don't be embarrassed, my darling. They are as enraptured by your beauty as I."

"They're staring at you, fool," Jeanne whispered, mortified.

Francis sighed, as if this was some hard trial in life he just _had _to endure. "Yes, I suppose I am rather beautiful as well."

"What! No, that's not -" Jeanne stopped when she saw that Francis was grinning.

"So what brings you here to the French court?" he asked.

Jeanne refused to answer, instead concentrating on her feet. She stepped on Francis' toe, and he winced slightly.

"I'm about to be sent off to war, you know," he started after a minute of stubborn silence. "Do you want to give a weary soldier some luck?"

Slapping him would probably upset her balance and send them both tumbling to the floor, while kneeing him again would probably cause some sort of scandal.

"No. I will not be making anyone _get lucky, _ever," she hissed.

Francis' eyes widened in what seemed to be genuine horror. "What, never?"

"Yes, never." She glared at him. "I have some _shred _of dignity left, unlike you -"

"Don't worry, my dear, you have simply not met the right man yet," he consoled, though he seemed to be reassuring himself as much as her.

Jeanne looked up at him seriously. "I have found the man I love. God."

"But surely he gave us flesh for something!" Francis smiled and twirled her around.

Jeanne fought for balance, only remaining upright because of Francis' way too personal touches. "_Oui, _to serve him, not to indulge ourselves in sins."

"Surely love is not a sin," he protested.

"I suspect your sort of love is one."

Francis smiled. "I am simply a man who wants to spread love around the world. I must be generous, as I have so much of it to give."

Jeanne raised an eyebrow. "One-night stands do not leave a trail of love."

Francis pouted. "You do not even know me."

"But I know your type," Jeanne said as France lead her in some sort of complicated twisting move. "I am not ignorant to the ways of the world."

"I never suggested you were, my dear. Though you do not seem to be from royalty." He left the question hanging.

"I come from a small village in the French countryside. You would probably not know of it."

"I assure you I will. I pride myself in knowing even the most obscure of towns."

"Domremy," she whispered, seeing he would not give in.

Francis nodded. "Part of the duchy of Bar, am I correct?" Jeanne nodded, surprised.

The song ended, and they stopped dancing. Jeanne hadn't realized how much time had already passed. In fact, the sky had been bright when the celebrations had started, and now it was twilight. In fact, many couples had already retired.

Jeanne started as a hand slapped her heartily on the back. She turned to see King Charles laughing at their startled expressions.

"I see you'll get along just fine. Didn't have any worries, of course. There's no lady," he coughed a little and went on, "no woman that Francis can't charm! Isn't that right?"

Francis smiled weakly. "That's right, sir."

King Charles chuckled. "You're the talk of the court! You've been dancing all night!" The king winked at Francis. "But you gotta stay pure girl! Don't wanna get on His bad side, hmm?"

"Excuse me sir , I don't think I -"

Charles frowned. "Haven't I told you? By God, I haven't! Francis, meet your new commander!"

"What?" Francis exclaimed. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"She guided by the saints." King Charles beamed. "Isn't that right, Jeanne?"

Jeanne smiled and bowed her head slightly. "Yes, sire. We will lead France to victory."

"You're not leading me anywhere!" Francis protested.

"I said _France _not _Francis, _you dimwit. I don't want to lead _you _anywhere," Jeanne spat back.

King Charles looked at them and backed away. "Lovers' quarrels...

"We are not in love!" Francis shouted.

"Don't shout at your king!"

"He deserves it! Spoiled little noble. Just cause he's my boss doesn't mean he can boss me around." He stopped and considered the logic of this. "I'm older than him!" he shouted to empty air, and stormed after the retreating king.

Jeanne watched him go. "He's going to get himself executed," she muttered. Not that she cared, except the care she had for everyone. Perhaps she could make an exception for him though.

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><p>Francis grabbed King Charles' shoulder, spinning him around.<p>

"What do you mean by this? Why are you putting a woman in charge?" he demanded.

Charles blinked owlishly at him. "She is guided by God. We had her tested by the priests and everything."

Francis pouted. "That doesn't mean she can be put in charge of _my _army!"

"She says she can lead us to victory." Charles sighed. "We're not doing so well, Francis. You know this."

Francis nodded. He knew it all to well. But alas, aspirin had not yet been invented, and he would just have to endure the pain. Damn that England, with his annoying eyebrows and his disgraceful cooking.

"She's our last resort, isn't she?" Francis stated dully. He had known, of course, that his government was weak, but surely...?

King Charles nodded. "I'm afraid so. The English are pushing in." He froze, realizing what he had said. But no perverted chuckle came from his country. Francis was simply staring at Jeanne. _Our only hope..._

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><p>Arthur strolled through the continent, marveling at how different it felt compared to his island. He felt stronger, somehow. More connected to the rest of the world. To add the the feeling of euphoria, he was beating up Francis, something that never failed to make him happy. Soon that damn frog would be eating<em> his<em> food – not that should be considered a form of torture, despite what Francis insisted. His cooking was delicious, thank you very much!

Perhaps, he could go and see what the frog was doing, while was here...

"_Frappaz fort! **" _Yes, that was Francis alright. He should have expected that he would be talking in that revolting language.

"_J'essaie! **" _Now, that wasn't Francis. Who was he with? Arthur peeked through the bushes he was hiding behind. Not that he needed to hide, he just didn't want to be raped.

"_Ce n'est pas si difficile que ça! Regardez!**" _Francis was standing next to a young blond woman with a crossbow, shouting at her. He was waving his arms vigorously, pointing at the lady, and at a target a few paces away. Broken arrows littered the ground around it.

"_Tais-toi! Vous avez fait cela beaucoup plus longtemps que moi!**" _Arthur smiled. He knew enough French to translate a little of that. Though he didn't like to admit he knew any French, Francis refusing to speak any other language rubbed off, and he knew 'shut up' when he heard it.

"_L'arbalète est l'un des plus faciles à manipuler des armes! Ici,permettez-moi devous montrer!**" _ Francis wrapped his arms around the lady, apparently trying to moving her hands to the correct places on the crossbow. Arthur had to admire his lack of molesting her. For now.

"_Obtenez vos mains sales sur moi!"** _The woman pushed Francis off her. Arthur raised an eyebrow. She was resisting Francis' advances...Arthur burst out laughing.

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><p>"Get your filthy hands off me!" Jeanne shouted, pushing Francis away from her. "Why are you trying to teach me this anyway? I thought you hated me!"<p>

"I don't deny it. I just don't want the person in charge of me...and my army to go around dying and making bad choices!"

"I am lead by God." Jeanne drew herself up. "He will deflect any arrows coming upon my path, and guide my decisions regarding 'your' army."

Francis narrowed his eyes. "That's all very well, into the English longsword decapitates you. And God can not take sides."

"He will take the side of those who are right." Jeanne glared.

"The English think God is on their side too."

"The English are wrong."

Their arguing was interrupted by laughter from the bushes surrounding the field they were practicing in.

Francis was instantly alert. "I know that laugh..." he muttered under his breath. Then his eye's widened and started sprinting towards the offending bushes.

"Arthur!" he shouted as a man lept up from behind the shrubs and started running away through the trees. (Not because he was scared though. He could never be scared of that damn frog.)

Jeanne watched them run in mild amusement, though it changed to confusion when Francis started yelling at the stranger in what sounded like...English?

"Ic beon fierdfaereld to abradwian unc!**"

"Ne sum hliet!" the stranger shouted back.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Jeanne wondered. Francis had abandoned her, and she had no idea where she was. Dam - oh wait - Darn him.

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><p>* <strong>translated into French, which is what they are speaking , <em>Bonne <em>means good and _Foy _means faith. It really does not suit France.**

**Arthur's overheard conversation goes a little something like this (Google Translate, please correct me if I'm wrong) **

"**I'm trying!" **

"**It's not that hard! Look!" **

"**Shut up! You've been doing this much longer than I have!" **

"**The crossbow is one of the easiest weapons to handle! Here, let me show you!" **

"**Get your filthy hands off me!" **

**Francis is saying "I'm going to kill you!" to Arthur in Old English, the only language I could think of that Jeanne couldn't understand, you couldn't understand, and was still English. Arthur shouts "Not a chance" **

**Historical Inaccuracies! YAY! **

**Joan of Arc had dark hair, and a dark complexion. She didn't talk a lot, and she most certainly did not kick people in the groin. But I see her as a very strong woman how would not like France messing around with her. **

**They did not have a dance before battles. Or at least, none that I know of. **

**King Charles...Wikipedia does not know much about his character, except he was mad,like, crazy mad, and he liked to party. His wife's lady-in-waiting got married, and he and four of his lord dressed up as this mythical folk creature, chained themselves together, and then danced around. Four of the dancers caught on fire and died. Bet that was fun for the bride. History is fun, folks!**

**_Please _Review~!  
><strong>


	2. Bataille

**Thank you for your reviews and story alerts!  
>The rating is being bumped up to a T...it was rather silly of my to try and claim anything with France could be lower than that. <strong>

**Oh, I did A TON of research for this...so when Francis lists of biblical figures, I know what I'm talking about. This is a warning, cause he's listing them for a very specific reason, and I don't want anyone to be offended, okay? You'll see. **

_**Warnings: mentions of prostitution and alcoholism.**_

**__Edit: Feb. 8 : Mixed up Alfred and Arthur. Had to fix that. (Thanks, 1silentmouse, for pointing that out) **

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><p>Jeanne surveyed the rough encampment of her army. Hands on hips, she stormed into Francis tent, kicked out the two drunken woman, and splashed water on one drunken man.<p>

"My lovelies...the light is to much. I will pay you later," he groaned, grabbing a pillow and burying his face in it.

Jeanne kicked him. "Get up, Francis! I'm not one of your drunken whores!"

Francis blearily opened one eye. "I see...what happened to them?"

"I evicted them," Jeanne huffed. "Serves those godless creatures right. Though if they had to touch you at all, I pity them."

"Oh, touch me they did, my dear. I hope you paid them," Francis chuckled, then groaned. Again. "You're letting the light in, go away."

"I did no such thing! Why would I pay those woman to...to do such vile and sinful things!" Jeanne exclaimed. "And it's noon! You should be up. Aren't you supposed to be in charge of this wretched excuse for an army?"

"Poor girls," France muttered before turning back to Jeanne. She realized with a start that only a thin blanket was covering up his indecency. She blanched in horror. "Get dressed, you fool! What would your men think if they saw you – What? No! Not in front of me!"

Jeanne ran out of the tent, blushing. Several of the men saw her and laughed among themselves.

A few minutes later, a (thankfully) fully dressed Francis wandered out of his tent, shielding his eye's from the glare of the sun. He stretched his long limbs, raising his arms far into the sky.

"Good." Jeanne pushed her self from the wall she was leaning on. "You're as decent as you'll ever be. Now tell me, why my men are behaving in such a manner?"

"Your men?" Francis raised an eyebrow. "I seem to recall they were mine just a few minutes ago!"

"Yours to train, mine to command," Jeanne snapped. "I have no time for this nonsense. Why are they acting in this way?"

Francis surveyed the milling soldiers. "Like what?"

"I have never seen such a lazy, unholy, unclean, indecent group of people in my life!"

Francis shrugged. "They're always like this."

Jeanne turned her eyes skyward. "_Oh God, give me strength," _she prayed.

From that moment on, Jeanne began a new regime. She kicked out all the prostitutes who made their living at the encampment, banned swearing and alcohol, brought in priests, and forced the men – including Francis- to go attend church and the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

"Captain Bonnefoy, please!" begged a young solider, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. "You have to stop her."

Francis just shook his head, trying to hold back his manly tears. He had not had a glass of wine in over a week, and the withdrawal symptoms were beginning to hit him head on. He had begged Jeanne, insisting God wanted them to happy, that His Son had created wine from water, that surely it was a sin to try and do the reverse. Jeanne never shifted. He had even turned to the old testament, pointing out famous figures like Rahab, Lot from Genesis, Judah (Genesis again) and don't forget the Song of Solomon! Jeanne blushed and looked away when he started quoting the damn thing at her, but she never gave up.

His head was killing him.

"Everyone, UP!" Jeanne shouted, stamping her foot. "Right! Now, run around this field for...until I tell you to stop! The British would laugh to see us in such a sorry state! Why are you all standing here? Get moving!"

The unfortunately sober soldiers turned hollow eyes to the dewy field,than back to the woman standing in front of them. Woman. Field. Woman. Field. Francis.

Francis felt their eyes on him, begging him for relief from this torture. But even stronger than his people's cry for help was the gaze currently being burned into the back of neck.

He wearily started a slow jog. His men, though loyal as always, followed unwillingly, glaring at the woman trotting beside them and shouting out encouraging (and annoying) statements all the way.

Francis could feel his throat burning, his limbs turning into jelly. He wasn't strong, and no amount of exercise could help him. France was collapsing under England's constant invasion of his country. He knew they had never gotten a long, but surely Arthur didn't want to _kill _him.

Surely not.

It felt like it though.

Francis collapsed, panting, in the dirt. He looked behind him, half-expecting Jeanne to run up and start shouting at him to get up. His squad was still far behind, bleary eyed and only propelled by the force of Jeanne's inane shouting. An unexpected feeling of pride overwhelmed him. Say anything you wanted about him, but he sure produced fine women. He couldn't wait until Arthur met her. Their two personalities would probably cause some sort of explosion.

The happy feeling quickly faded away. Francis was at war with Arthur, he certainly didn't want Jeanne to met him

He scooted over and leaned against a tree, trying to think of happier days with wine and less bossy women...

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><p>The months of training passed remarkably quickly after the first month of pure agony. Francis could no longer tell when he himself was happy, or when it was his people's good spirits. But it no longer mattered. Word was spreading of this amazing woman commander. Whenever they passed a town, people whispered and stared.<p>

But today she would finally encounter the final test – King Charles had sent her and her army to Orleans, a city that had been under siege for five long months.

Jeanne was understandably nervous, and Francis' insistence that it was no big deal, just another battle out of many, was not helping. She spent less and less time with her men and more time in her tent, alone, talking to her saints.

She almost didn't make it to her first battle.

"Come on, Jeanne!" Francis smiled down at her. "Where is your sword?"

Jeanne glared at him. "I am in prayer. You should know better than to interrupt me."

"Surely you want to join the battle!" Francis exclaimed in mock horror. "What else have you been working for all these weeks?"

"The battle?" Jeanne bolted upright. "Now? Here?" She started reaching for her sword and armor at the same, trying to put the latter on with one hand.

"Come down, little one." Francis laughed. "We are on the march to the fortress of Saint Loup. You must move."

And she did, though she spent the rest of the day of the verge of a nervous breakdown. Francis seemed to find her discomfort greatly amusing.

When the time came to actually fight, Jeanne felt weak and exhausted. Her legs felt as if they could collapse at any minute, and her arms hung uselessly from her sides.

"I can't do this, Francis," she whispered. "I thought I was strong...but to kill...I can't take another man's life...God's creatures..."

Francis ruffled her hair affectionately. "You will be strong, my dear. It is war. You will see. And God is on our side, no?"

"...Stay by me, Francis." Jeanne cursed herself for her weakness. Surely no one would consent to be lead by someone who refused to be in a battle and who collapsed at the first sign of conflict. Francis must be laughing at her now, laughing at how weak woman were, rejoicing at he could regain control of his army.

"Of course, for as long as I can," Francis agreed blithely.

Jeanne looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. For the first time, she didn't see a perverted idiot...perhaps she could even glimpse the famed war hero that his men – her men - raved about.

"After all," he continued. "I wouldn't want the prettiest thing on the battlefield to be lost to those nasty Brits, would I?" He winked at her, and Jeanne turned away in disgust. No, Francis would never change.

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><p>"That was a cheap shot, even for you, Francis," Arthur hissed through a bloodied mouth.<p>

Francis rubbed his knuckles in satisfaction. The Englishman's blood stained his skin and clothes – it would be a devil to get off later, but it was worth it.

"Such a small little fort like Saint Loup can't hurt that much, dear Arthur. What's wrong?" Francis sneered. "Have another civil war while I was gone?"

Arthur winced. "It wasn't a bloody civil war, Frog. And don't call me that."

"Call you what? Dear Arthur? But it's what I always called you when you were little," Francis teased. "But tell me, are those peasants still bothering you? It must be dreadful to have such an unruly populous."

"S-Shut it," Arthur muttered. "You'll pay for this, God dammit."

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><p><strong>History Lesson of the Day<strong>** - Warning: NSFW**

**Rahab – a prostitute from the bible who rescued some of her clients from persecution...or something. I don't really know about her. **

**Lot (Genesis) – dude whose daughters got him drunk in a cave and then slept with him. Lovely. **

**Judah (Genesis) – don't know a lot about him, except "_When Judah saw her, he thought her to be a harlot; because she had covered her face. And he turned to her by the way and said, Go to, I pray thee, let me come unto thee; for he knew not that she was his daughter-in-law." _Genesis 38: 15-16. And then he gave her a baby goat and some bracelets. **

**Song of Solomon ( or Song of Songs) – if you don't know what this is, I suggest you go and read it. There are plenty of online bibles out there. It's supposed to be a metaphor for one's love for God...but I don't know...to give you a hint at what I'm talking about, which cannot truly be comprehended without reading all of it, here is : "_Thy stature is like to a palm tree, and thy breasts to clusters of grapes. I said, I will go up to the palm tree, I will take hold of the boughs thereof: now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine..._etc, etc." Reminds me of Korea...**

**The Peasants Revolt – true, no one likes taxes, but these guys _really _hated it. Storming London and such like. The Tower of London, etc.**

**Jeanne reforming the army - true again, though probably in not such a violent method. **

**The battles are all real events~If a tad bit fictionalized *cough* I don't think France was quite (definitely not) as weak as I make him out to be...**

**Thanks for reading! Please Review! It makes me update faster~ **


	3. Les cicatrices et la maladie

**I'm not to fond of this chapter, actually. Hmm...**

_**Disclaimer: I bet you a hundred dollars that I don't own Hetalia**_

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><p>Jeanne paced in her room, hands clasped behind her back. Where was Francis? The British had instantly given up at the St. Loup fortress, no fight required.<p>

"_Tea drinking surrender cows!"_ shouted a drunken soldier outside her door. Jeanne smiled slightly. After much begging, she had finally allowed them alcohol. She rather regretted it now, locked up in her room for her own safety as soldiers rioted in the halls.

"_I can't kill them," Jeanne panted, grasping her sword. _

_Francis swung his own sword towards a British soldier charging towards her. "You must try, my dear." _

"_Non," Jeanne shook her head. "I cannot." _

_He bent down and wrenched a French banner from a fallen soldiers hands. "Take this." _

"_What help will this do?" she cried, but Francis had already gone, lost in the fray of fighting and blood. _

_She had dropped her sword in the confusion._

"_Francis?" she called. "Francis!" _

Where could he be? He had not been one of the dead bodies collected after the battle, though if Jeanne had her way, he would be another name with a letter to send to grieving family.

"Ma'am?" A knock came at her door.

Unbolting it, she asked peeked through the opened crack.

"_Bonjour, mon ami,_" Francis greeted her.

She slammed the door shut. Well, at least she knew he was safe.

"Oh come on, my dear! Don't be like that!" Francis shouted. "What did I do now?"

Jeanne leaned on the door and crossed her arms over her chest. "Where were you?"

"I'll tell you if you let me in," Francis bribed.

Jeanne pouted, but opened the wooden door.

"Well, where were you?" Jeanne demanded. "We were looking all over for you! I thought you were dead!"

Francis winked. "I'm glad you missed me, darling."

Jeanne blushed furiously. "You're not useful dead."

Sighing inwardly, Francis said, "Your love for me is plain, my dear. One day you may admit it to yourself."

"Whatever you say. Now tell me where you were – I know you've been avoiding the question. I could have you shot for desertion."

"Battling, little one. The fortunes of battle where against me that day, and I had to face an Englishmen by myself in the woods." He threw a hand out dramatically. "I was lucky to escape with my life! As it was, I managed to throw a few punches and make my way through the forest, only to find you had left me! So I fell to my knees and begged God to spare me, and a beautiful white dove flew down from the heavens and led me here!" Francis beamed.

Jeanne stared at him, wide-eyed. "You are a disgrace."

Francis pouted. "You're a fine one to be talking. Simply look at those clothes!"

She looked down. She was wearing simple men's garb. "What about them?"

"They are torn, dirty, bloodstained, ragged," he started counting the faults on his fingers. "Brown (of all the colors...) inappropriate for someone of your stature, old, unpleasantly plain -"

"Fine! I get it! Just get out!" Jeanne pushed Francis' back, trying to physically move him from her room.

Francis winced slightly and stumbled forward. Though he tried to mask his obvious pain, it was too late.

"Francis?" she asked. "What's wrong? Were you hurt?"

Not an unreasonable question. They had just fought a battle, after all. Jeanne still felt like an overprotective mother hen.

"It's nothing." He tried to brush her question off with a smile. "I fear I am growing old."

"What are you, twenty?" she scoffed. "Now shut up and tell me what's wrong."

"Which do you want me to do first?"

"What?" Jeanne cocked her head in puzzlement. "What are you rambling on about now?"

"You said to shut up and and tell you what is wrong. I can't do both at the same time," Francis pointed out.

Jeanne shook her head. "No...just no. Just tell me what happened to you."

"Fortunes of war, my love." Francis shrugged.

Jeanne scowled and pulled up the back of his shirt. It was criss-crossed with scars,most of them fresh. She gasped. "Francis! You cannot fight like this! What were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," Francis insisted as Jeanne tugged his arm, trying to drag him into the infirmary. Jeanne ignored him. "Guard! Take him to the doctors right away!"

The young man reluctantly took hold of Francis' arm. "What's wrong, miss?"

"He is very sick. I'm sure he'll tell me what happened later." Jeanne glared. "But right now he's going to go get some rest."

"Captain Bonnefoy? Sick? Never!" the young man laughed. "You must be joking miss, he's never been sick a day in his life, have you?"

"Exactly. Now if you could just let me go..."

"I'm not taking no for an answer."

Which is how Francis Bonnefoy ended up passed out on a hospital gurney, with barely trained soldiers who knew a bit of first aid tutting around his exposed back.

"I don't understand it...he's been with us for years and never said a word," the guard whispered tearfully. "He'll be alright, won't he? They look bad."

Jeanne looked up at him. It was unnerving to see such a big man so rattled. "You must really care for him."

"We all do, ma'am. He trained up, and he always protected us. Just like one of the soldiers." He sniffed. "I don't know what we'd do without him."

Jeanne reluctantly patted the man on the back. "He'll be just fine. Now shouldn't you be off with your comrades? We'll be fine here."

The man nodded and left, taking one last look at his commander.

One of the medical staff looked up at her. "It's not all sunshine and roses. He's quite ill, and has been for some times, we think."

Jeanne nodded. "I know. We can only hope God has mercy on this poor soldier in dire need of his forgiveness."

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><p><em>...The next day...(War Conference with Jean d'Orleans {Who is NOT Jeanne d'Arc}) <em>

"We must take the enemy!" Jeanne shouted. "Make him pay for what he has done to our people!" She slammed her hand against the table. "What you are suggesting is ludicrous."

"You, a simple peasant girl who doesn't even know how to read, are trying to tell _me _how to command _my _army? We have stuck with this strategy for the entirety of the war – we're not abandoning it now." Jean d'Orleans folded his arms.

"And look were it has gotten us!" Jeanne insisted. "We're losing, in case you haven't noticed."

"That's treasonous talk, Jeanne. Now where is Francis? I need someone reasonable to talk to."

"He's sick," Jeanne said stubbornly. "He can't talk to you."

"Francis?" Jean raised an eyebrow. "Sick?"

Really, why did everyone seem to surprised? The man couldn't have been healthy is whole life, especially with the way he lived until she came.

"No matter." He brushed it off. "I'm locking the gates, Jeanne. You're going nowhere."

"What? No! You can't do that!" Jeanne yelled.

"I understand how you must feel...but I'm afraid I can," Jean smirked. "Your in my territory now. We've been here for a while now...I think we understand what to do better than you."

Jeanne took a deep breath. "We need to take a stand."

"No. I declare this meeting over." He stood up. "We can discuss this later."

Jeanne stormed out of the room. She wasn't going to stand for this. She _knew _they had to attack the British, attack them now.

She stopped at the makeshift infirmary. "Francis?"

He groaned and wearily waved a hand at her, trying to shoo her away. Jeanne looked around for one of the staff. "Is he alright?"

"We got some leeches." A physician held up a jar of black, slimy things. "They don't seem to be helping though."

"Is that all you can do?" Jeanne begged. "I need to talk to him."

The physician shrugged. "Go ahead. Can't guarantee he answer you – but he'll hear you."

Francis tried to sit up, but failed epically. Jeanne gently pushed him back down.

"I don't see what happened," she complained. "You can't have gotten this sick from those scars." Jeanne leaned in close to his face, placing her hand across his forehead. It was burning.

Francis moaned. "_Mon petit?" _

Jeanne smiled and stroked his hair. "He's much better when he's like this, no? Sweeter."

The doctor shrugged.

"Arthur," Francis moaned again.

Jeanne froze.

"So...cute...little..."

A blush began to rise to her cheeks. Who was he talking about?

"Nice...hair..."

Jeanne's hand self-consciously rose to stroke her own greasy locks. It wasn't her fault – showers weren't available on the march.

Francis turned over, his mouth tugging down into a frown.

"Don't...eat...make me..."

"He's been mumbling like that since he came in here," the doctor remarked. "Mostly about Arthur. Quite the lucky girl, I think." He winked at her. "If an unfortunately masculine name."

_He has a girl back home? Why didn't he tell me? _Actually, now that she thought about it, Jeanne didn't know too much about Francis. He was at the court when she came, but that didn't mean anything. He was head of her section of the army, but she didn't know how. Surely he had done something? Or was he just a noble who inherited the title?

Who was he?

* * *

><p><em>Francis' POV <em>

His dreams were fevered, swirling with colors and vague memories. He had held out so long, staying awake by never sleeping, never laying down. Why had Jeanne denied him this? The wine and sex were the only things that kept him alive, probably.

_Arthur – England – was laughing madly as he stabbed wildly at Francis. He screamed, overwhelmed with blood lust. _

_Again, the Black Plague, his limbs covered in black spots. He leaned over and vomited blood. As nations, they couldn't die – that relief was denied to them._

_How old was he? It seemed like forever... _

Had he and England ever gotten along?

Arthur had been a cute little boy – not as cute as Francis, of course, but that noise he made sometimes – like a squee, overwhelming the circuits that supplied cuteness to the brain.

Once you looked at his eyebrows though...

Francis groaned and turned over. Damn that girl!

* * *

><p><strong>See? I didn't forget France is in a war. And losing. I feel as if he's a bit OOC in this though...Meh...really not fond of this...whatever. <strong>

**Notes!**

_**The Battle of Loup : **_**Should have been in the last chapter, but eh. Probably Joan's first battle, I don't really know. They won though, and they soon marched to... **

_**St. Jean le Blanc Fortress: **_**True story. **

_**Jean d'Orleans, War Conferences, and Locking the Gates: **_**True story bro. **

**There is way to many Jeans. WAAYY to many. Jean le Blanc, Jeanne d'Arc, Jean d'Orleans...grr...**

**FrUk notes: **

**Sorry about that. Oh, and did you know, Nov.15 in France celebrates the name Arthur? FrUk FTW! Himaruya _totally _did that on purpose. I don't even support FrUk! **

**AND Arthur is a girl's name to. No joke.**

**Please review, if only to boost my self-confidence. **


	4. Réunions

**Dear God, did I only post three chapters of this? I could have sworn I had like, 10. **

**! **

_**I APOLOGIZE!**_

**I wrote the first part many, many months before I wrote the rest. Which I wrote today. Ah..**

**Edit: Wrote Alfred for Arthur again, dammit. (Thank you again, 1silentmouse, you've done this twice now. I have a problem. You're my awesome therapist.) **

* * *

><p>Jeanne took a deep breath, lifted up her tray of food, and walked over to a communal table. As she sat down, the whole tent full of soldiers turned and looked at her. Jeanne smiled weakly.<p>

"Hello, men," she said, her voice laced with false cheer. "How are you today?"

A soldier – the guard of her door – stood up and took his hat off. "Excuse us ma'am. Would you like something? I would be happy to get something for you, I mean, if that's what you wanted."

"Is it so uncommon that a commander eat with her men?"

The man fidgeted uncomfortably. It hadn't been uncommon, not with Francis. But Jeanne was _a lady._

Jeanne gave up. Obviously making friends wasn't the way to go. "Alright, I did come here for a purpose. I want you to tell me about Francis."

They exchanged nervous glances. "What for, Miss?" The guard asked, clutching at his hat for dear life.

"I know nothing about him. How did he get this position?"

The guard shrugged. "I dunno, Miss."

"What's his title?"

"I dunno, Miss."

"How has he lead your army so far?"

"I reckon he's done well enough," piped a soldier from the back.

Jeanne looked around her motley crew. Well, not so motley. They were the king's men, after all. Finally she spotted what she was looking for.

"You there!" she pointed towards an elderly gentlemen sitting in the back. "Surely you know of when Francis came?"

The man looked up from his tankard, startled. "Hmmm? I'm afraid hmm, not. Mr. Bonnefoy has been hmm, here as long as I hmm, can remember."

"When did you recruit?" Jeanne asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I was just hmmm, a young lad, perhaps hmmm, fifteen or so."

Jeanne started as a rough hand landed on her shoulder. "I can tell you about Mr. Bonnefoy," said a deep voice from behind her. "Sit down."

She followed his instructions, and was faced with a large man, mostly muscle, with a drooping straw colored mustache. Next to him was another man, slimmer, but you could still sill the lean muscles in his arms.

"I'm Gaston Renseigne," the larger man bellowed. "And this is my dear friend, Mr. Citer."

Jeanne nodded, satisfied. "What can you two tell me about Francis?"

"I'm sure Citer here can tell you a lot about Mr. Francis." Gaston nudged his colleague. "Ain't that right, Citer?"

She bit her lip.

"Used to work with him, he did," Gaston explained. "In the library."

"_Nutrimentum spiritus__,_" Citer nodded wisely.

His friend sighed. "We got it, we got it, you're real educated. Don't belong in a hellhole like this. Talk in French, please."

"Food for the soul," Citer explained grouchily, and turned away.

"He get like this sometimes," Gaston apologized. "He was educated in an university and everything. Doesn't like it here, oh no. Doubt he'll talk to you today."

"Please," Jeanne begged.

Citer seemed to accept her pleas, and began in a solemn tone. "Francis Bonnefoy was always a strange one. He appeared out of no where, sorting books. No one could remember hiring him on, and his accent was un-placeable. He never showed up for regular hours; sometimes he didn't show up for days. He came and went as he pleased."

After a long, drawn out silence, Jeanne prompted, "And?"

"I think Citer here means to say that he dunno anymore," Gaston translated.

Jeanne pursed her lips and got up. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Citer," she lied.

The men relaxed as she left, again, for Francis's tent.

* * *

><p>Jeanne found that once again she was at the bedside of Francis. His heated, clammy hand was clutching hers. Jeanne had been there all night, kept awake by the groans and ragged breathing of Francis.<p>

In the morning, much to her relief, Francis managed to crack open one eye. "Awful morning, isn't it, my dear?"

Jeanne began to nod, but realized that his position on the bed did not allow him to see her. Instead, she said, "There have been better. I need to talk to you Francis."

"I have no choice but to listen," Francis said; the sarcasm-laden tone would have caused her to hit him if it hadn't been the terrible look on his face. While sleeping he looked relatively calm, but the weight of the world seemed to hit him when he was awake. His usually well-groomed hair was knotted and greasy. His smooth face was blotchy, eyes red.

She almost felt bad telling him, but she had to be the strong one. "I'm going to Fort Saint Augustine."

Francis smiled warily. "Darling, I know you're excited, but I don't think my dear captors, I mean caretakers, will let me charge into battle quite yet."

Jeanne braced herself. "...I'm going without you, Francis."

He raised an eyebrow. "Remind me to work on your sense of humor."

"It's not a joke," Jeanne insisted. "I'm going tonight; now that you're awake I can probably leave sooner."

Francis grabbed her wrist, as if trying to keep her from going to battle. With a start, Jeanne realized how thin his own wrists were, bones jutting. She looked down at her own calloused hands compared to his soft ones and pulled away.

How did he even keep them so smooth if he was a soldier?

"I don't think..._France_, as a country, is really ready to continue fighting," Francis said.

Jeanne glared at him. "Don't be such a narcissist. We both know what this is really about. Don't you dare even suggest that the fate of France rests on your shoulders."

Francis almost smiled at that. "Haven't you heard the phrase, 'accept your own fate'?" He winked suggestively at her, or it would have been suggestive, if his eyes hadn't been gummy with sleep and sickness and stuck his eyelashes together. Francis rubbed at his eyes with knuckled hands.

Jeanne got up to leave while he was distracted, but once again that soft hand gripped wrist. "Let me go!" she began to say, but Francis interrupted.

"Stay safe, my lily flower." For once he wasn't joking. He let her go like a father giving his bride away at a wedding. Jeanne stumbled out, a bit dazed. Then she straightened up and brushed herself off, striding away with purpose. Watching soldiers quickly got out of her way, throwing themselves to the ground rather then facing her stare.

Finally, she reached her own tent and, sitting down on the pallet, held a fluffy purple pillow to her face, burying herself in it.

"Mmmph! MMMMPPPHHH ahhA!" she screamed. Then she fell backwards, already planning the attack.

* * *

><p>Arthur looked around the frantically fighting man, in a strange state of calm. Around him the battle may rage, but he, Arthur Kirkland, was not a part of it. He was, of course, looking for Francis. Though this was a relatively minor battle, Francis still wouldn't dare <em>not <em>showing up.

Unless he was afraid of THE BRITSH EMPIRE, that is.

Arthur cackled madly; the already wide circle between him and the fight increased markedly. He surveyed his troops, comparing them to Francis's. Yes, all was good with the – was that a woman? Arthur squinted. Yes, even under the loose clothing and the heavy army, a thin, curvy body could be seen that most definitely was (Arthur blushed) a woman's.

She was heading straight towards him, sword arm swinging in a wide arc that would have decapitated him if Arthur didn't have the sense to duck out of the way, taking out his own sword as he did so.

As they locked swords, Arthur asked in broken French, "You know...man of Francis? Commander?"

She replied with rapid-fire French, so fast that he only caught the three words most known to him, 'Yes', 'bastard' and 'English'. But it was clear from the venomous look on her face that he was known to her.

"Tell...hello...him...from Arthur," he growled. It probably would have been more threatening had the French not been so bad. Still, he felt he made the point when Jeanne spat in his face, threw herself to the ground (Arthur's sword swung automatically as the barrier of Jeanne's sword disappeared) and grabbed onto his legs, tripping him.

Wrestling with swords in not a good practice, ever. One human, one nation, both very lucky to be alive, emerged from the ensuing tussle, Jeanne's foot planted firmly on Arthur's chest.

Despite the circumstances, Arthur was still smiling slightly. "Do not...of Francis...tell."

Jeanne snorted and stabbed downwards.

* * *

><p>The march home was long and exhausting, but she had won. Jeanne burst in to the hospital, triumphant and proud, perfectly prepared to rub her victory in Francis's face. Instead, she found a war council.<p>

The members of the council she had previously debated were there, sitting in chairs set up around in a semi-circle around Francis's bed. Francis himself was propped up with several pillows, conversing directly with the hated Jean d'Orleans.

When he saw her, he raised his hand weakly in what was probably supposed to be a cheery wave, but quickly turned into a placatory gesture aimed at the enraged Jeanne.

"What is this?" she demanded. "Why was this held without me.

Jean's gesture managed to say 'because you're not important' and 'what? You were gone? I'm extremely sorry' at the same time.

"I'm afraid we didn't even consider the fact that you were absent," he said, smiling smoothly. "I'll just inform you of the decisions, shall I?"

Jeanne gaped at him, mouth hanging open like a goldfish.

"We have decided we are not ready to continue madly attacking the British forces. Our resources will not hold. Instead, we will wait for reinforcements. You and Francis will be sent to the palace to recover."

"Recover from what?" was all Jeanne could think to say. "I am not sick!"

Jean d'Orleans looked doubtful. "You look...very...dirty. Is that blood?"

She looked down. "I've been at war. Against the British. Which we should be at right now, if you weren't a such a group of cowards! This blood? This blood is from the English. And," she turned to the bemused Francis, "his last words were not to tell you I had overpowered him. And to say hello to you from Arthur. In very bad French."

The men gaped at her; Francis burst out into laughter that wracked his frail body until the doctors began to glare at Jeanne and shift towards Francis nervously.

"Arthur...oh, God! Did you stab him?" he gasped out. Jeanne nodded, speechless, stunning by the outburst. Francis broke into another round of uncontrollable laughter.

"Ah, I'll never let him live it down!" Jeanne began to point out that he couldn't, the Englishman was dead, but a general interrupted her with:

"You stabbed Arthur Kirkland? Please describe him."

Jeanne complied, still staring at the insane invalid, paying special attention to the enormous eyebrows.

The war council began to whisper among themselves. Some were clearly amused, others strangely frightened. They seemed to come to a consensus; Jean d'Orleans stood up. "You will be moved to the palace as soon as possible. Please refrain from killing anyone of importance there." He sat back down stiffly.

"Dead...stabbed...girl...you!" Francis guffawed.

* * *

><p><strong>This is un-re-read, un-beta-ed, un-anything. If you find any mistakes, telling me would be wonderful. <strong>

**Reviews would be much appreciated. Though not deserved. **


	5. Vengeance

**I'm _back! _You didn't think I'd abandon you again, did you? Notes at the bottom, including the ones from last chapter...xD  
>Does anyone know how to say Jeanne? I've been pronouncing it Ja-neen, but well, <em>French. <em>  
>Warnings: extremely long an and first ever war scene that I didn't really...umm  
>Oh! Almost forgot; this is actually the funniest thing I have ever seen on youtube. Watch it. Watch it now. <strong>/watch?v=3SqM2dv9_4Y**  
>Disclaimer - I do not own Hetalia.<strong>

* * *

><p>There was one problem in an otherwise flawless plan. Jeanne. Anyone who thought that she would go, without a word of protest, to the palace obviously didn't know her very well. Away from her men? From the battle? Running away from God's plan would be blasphemous.<p>

Jeanne stood in the yard in front of her army, sword in hand. She was ready to rally her troops; to convince them that their current orders were terrible and that they should definitely follow her instead. "We must fight! The English have defiled us, disrespected us! We cannot wait for the attack!" she shouted. "Would you go home and admit to your wives and children that you turned your back to their aggressors out of fear? Do you want to deliver messages to the family of a dead comrade and when they ask if we have won, what would you say? We were cowards, your husband's, your father's death was in vain?" She hoisted the heavy sword above her head and gestured in front of her. "We! Must! Fight!"

Silence. Someone yawned. Several groups of people began to wander off, entertainment over.

And so Jeanne found herself again standing at the edge of Francis' bed. He had been moved from the hospital tent yesterday. Doctors said there was no point in keeping him there and wasting a bed; he wasn't getting worse (or better).

**"**How do you do it?" she asked him.

**"**My amazing looks?" Francis replied, yawning. "You will find that brushing your hair every day does wonders!" He reached up and ran a pale hand through her tangled locks.

Jeanne blushed and pushed his hand away. "I don't care about that! How do you inspire people?"

**"**Mm, I find you plenty inspiring," Francis murmured, so low that Jeanne wasn't sure he had really said anything. "What do you need? You would be wiser to ask how to greet a king!"

**"**I've met the king, stupid," Jeanne scoffed. "And I need...um..." She couldn't tell him that she was planning on disregarding orders and leading the army to _les Tourelles_. "To...every good leader knows how to rouse their troops!"

Francis smiled and ran a hand through his hair. "Where are you attacking those poor Brits now, my dear?"

As Jeanne sputtered indignantly, Francis went on, "Though I may be slightly...unwell, I'm not completely oblivious to you. (Francis actually paid quite a lot of attention to Jeanne. Not that he would tell her that.) I heard your nice little speech from before. You may want to be slightly more covert about stirring up rebellion, mm?"

Jeanne recovered use of her tongue. "Why didn't you tell me before I made a fool of myself?"

**"**And miss the chance to hear you lie (very badly, I might add) ?" Francis held a hand to his heart. "Never!"

Jeanne kneeled down beside the bed. "It doesn't matter where I am going; you are not going with me. I just need your help! Please, Francis! I'm supposed to inspire hope! I'm sent from God! And I just...can't do it!" She buried her head into Francis' arm. "Please!"

Francis patted her head awkwardly. "You're cute, darling. But I much prefer Strong Jeanne; stop pretending to cry now. You should have learned that you are an extremely bad actor."

Jeanne scowled and raised her head. "Fine! I don't need your help anyway!" She made to storm out, lifting the tent flap that constituted as a door angrily.

Francis gripped her wrist. He was still so frail. "I never said I would not help, darlin'. Just that you were being silly." Wheezing heavily, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up, leaning on Jeanne. She blushed and looked away. Francis was wearing, off all things, a long nightdress. He laughed a little at the pink in her cheeks, but did not explain. Jeanne tried to push him gently back onto the bed without actually _touching _him anywhere.

**"**Non, you want to rouse the men, do you not?" Francis said. "I do not believe we have time to give you a lesson on the finer points of orientation. If I heard you, someone less willing to help would have too. This is a lot quicker."

**"**But you're sick!" Jeanne protested. She put a hand against his forehead. "Very sick!" She looked at him critically. He had turned a palish green-white when he stood up, and was swaying slightly. "Maybe I should go and fetch a doctor..."

**"**Non!" He stopped her. "Let me talk to them." His eyes turned pleading. "Please!"

Jeanne gave up and led him out, calling the men (who were hopeful of another hilarious spectacle) back together. Francis laughed to himself. _I am a much better actor than my Fleur de Lis..._

The men straightened up as they realized the person in front of them was Francis. Someone hastened to help support him, ushering Jeanne away. Francis smiled weakly at the man and began to speak.

**"**Listen here lads, it's been a bit boring here ever since our darling Jeanne came and took away all our unlawful pleasures, mm?" This was met with general approval from the men and an outraged snort by Jeanne. "Well, time to work off all that hot steam with a wash in English blood and a quick jog around the battlefield, no? Let's follow this young lady to where ever she has this nice little war set up for us and then we can come back as heroes, mm? Ready lads?"

The crowd roared, lifting up helmets and spears. They seemed ready to charge at the next person they say. Jeanne took the opportunity, after ordering Francis back to bed, and led the army out.

**XxXx **

Jeanne never truly liked to fight. Not really. Well, a little bit. But killing was simply out of the question. Unless you were British (Francis still hadn't really gotten over that). Well, outside of war, murder was evil.

But as swung her heavy sword around, blood flying and the world slowing down to the point where everything was so _clear_, Jeanne didn't think. Thinking was for the dead. Rest in the grave.

Everyone was shouting and screaming, a mix of English and French blending together in an incomprehensible mess.

Jeanne felt a splatter of warm blood hit her cheek, dripping down her neck. Blood from earlier had caked on her skin, forming complex patterns on her flesh and leaving her stiff. She felt dirty, disgusting, exhilarated.

**"**Haven't I told you to be completely elegant at all times, my dear?" Francis said beside her. He had appeared, smiling benevolently, without her knowing. It was lucky (for him, not her) that he wasn't cut in half.

Francis looked perfectly immaculate, as always. The only thing missing was a glass of wine and a girl in one arm.

And of course, the bed, the frantic doctors, and a fever.

**"**What are you doing here?" she screamed at him, trying to be heard over the sound of war. Francis winked.

**"**Darling, you'll learn that you see a lot of strange things on the battlefield." Just like that, he was gone. At any other time, Jeanne would have been left pondering the space he had been, wondering what had just happened. This was not the time to do so - she would end up as more crow feed. Besides, Francis had practically admitted he wasn't real. Who was she to call her own mirage a liar?

God appears in strange ways.

**XxXx**

Francis was panting - his brief encounter with Jeanne had taken all the suave out of him. Avoiding her while simultaneously keeping up with the men and staying with the few he could trust not to tell anyone while deathly sick on the march was harder than it sounded.

**"**I heard you got beaten up by a girl," Francis said, finally looking up at the decidedly angry Brit. "Could it be that woman in England - oh wait, you burn yours."

**"**Like you don't," England scoffed. "Admit, you believe in witchcraft."

Francis just smiled.

**"**Only...that really hurt, Frog," England complained. He lifted the front of his shirt, revealing a long, fresh scar that stretched down under the waist of his pants. Jeanne had gutted him like a fish. "I doubt it's anything compared to how you're feeling right now," he said, pulling his shift back down. Francis stopped ogling.

**"**You have put considerable pressure on my assets." If only there was a dialogue tag like 'entendred'. Instead, Francis settled for a wink.

England shuddered. "You are disgusting."

Francis shrugged. "Monsieur Pot should not call the kettle black."

They looked down at the battle raging beneath them. They always managed to find some place away from the actual fighting, but still had a good view. **  
>"<strong>Why do we do this, Arthur?" Francis asked. "I'm only..." he thought. "I'm a thousand." He frowned. "Has it been that long already?"

Arthur laughed. "Not for me, old man." He seemed more arrogant than sad at the loss of life, proud of being part of Europe now instead of some random island floating off its coast. "I'm going to be king of the world one day. The sun will never set on the British Empire."

**"**The world is flat," Francis reminded him.

England's eyes glinted. "I'll sail around the edge of the sea and back." Then, with a groan, he stretched, raising his arms far into the sky. "Have you heard what The Most Serene Republic of Venice is babbling on about?"

**"**Marco Polo?" France dismissed the notion. "Bullshit. Feliciano claims they wash _every three days! _Can you believe that?"

**"**It's strange...but Feli's doesn't seem intelligent enough to lie. Could a country really be that old?"

**"**He's very creative, but I don't think anyone could bear this for that long."

Arthur ignored him, drawing his sword from its sheath. "I'd like this to be quick, France. I've got places to be; but I always take any chance at stabbing a Frenchman."

Francis smiled and drew his own sword with a flourish. He took one last glance at the battle below them. They seemed like ants down there. One soldier, who knows whose side he was on, was on a rampage, plowing through -

Francis squinted. Was that...Jeanne?

_Jeanne d'Arc_?

Arthur followed his gaze. "I was very...close with Rome for a while. You get to know _'that look_'. Is the Frog in love with the Princess?"

**"**Really? I thought the eyebrows blocked your vis-"

**"**Shut up, you wanker!" Francis made no move, just watching that amazing, amazing girl.

"Oy, did someone just shoo-"

France began sprinting down the hill, almost tripping several times, and with a well-aimed throw of a rock by Arthur, ended up rolling through the ridiculous amount of thorn bushes, cursing loudly.

It didn't matter too much; all that mattered was Jeanne.

He would kill the whole damn Kingdom of Britain if she was dead. If there was so much as a scratch on her...

He was so stupid. It was war. Maybe even God couldn't protect her here. Of course she would get hurt-!

**XxXx **

It was a late reaction and a stupid mistake. She had just stopped paying attention to her surroundings, caught up in the frenzy. Some Briton had managed to hit her with a lucky shot, that was it. Jeanne really didn't feel the pain of the arrow grazing her neck until she heard the thud of the not-so-lucky soldier behind her hitting the ground. Jeanne put a hand to her neck and felt the blood. She stared incredulously at her hand. It was covered in red.

The world began to swirl around her, everything swirling into such _beautiful, beautiful colors. _

_Someone was shouting her name, but that didn't matter, really..._

_She could feel herself being lifted up, shaken...but that didn't really matter either. Not when the darkness was inviting her in so kindly..._

_So kindly..._

**XxXx**

**One: I was looking up how to write a fight scene, and whoever had written the article thought that love and war were tied together enough that they included them in the same page...but, for some reason, there was a male!sex slave example. His name was Kellen. I never ever want to read a male version of me doing...*shudder* I've read smut, but _really. _I couldn't stomach it, which is one reason my war is awful. **

**Two: OH MY F-ING GOD I'M GOING TO JAPAN! I'm so excited, I know you don't care and this whole A/N was a waste of your time but dear god I'M GONNA GO TO KIKU. EMBRACE ME! I swear I'm gonna step off the plan and through myself to the ground and kiss him. Japan, that is. ****  
><strong>_**But I digress. **_**If any of you wonderful dears happen to have any experience with Japan at all, I would be eternally grateful if you gabe me some tips. I'm reading about it, but *puts on tinfoil hat* I feel like they are all lying and I'm going to go to Japan and everyone will...I don't know. Not being very textbook D: ****  
><strong>**Sorry guys. ****  
><strong>**Notes: ****  
><strong>

**I left out a lot...here's a quote directly from Wikipedia: **

"_The next day she opposed Jean d'Orleans at a war council where she demanded another assault on the enemy. D'Orleans ordered the city gates locked to prevent another battle, but she summoned the townsmen and common soldiers and forced the mayor to unlock a gate. With the aid of only one captain she rode out and captured the fortress of Saint Augustins. That evening she learned she had been excluded from a war council where the leaders had decided to wait for reinforcements before acting again. Disregarding this decision, she insisted on attacking the main English stronghold called "les Tourelles"__on 7 May.__" _She was wounded in the neck by an arrow.

**More History: **

**The Most Serene Republic of Venice: The name of North Italy at the time**

**Marco Polo:...I hope you know this guy. Italian who basically opened China up to the world. **

**I blame it on the fact that I was working purely off my notes. Sorry. And I'm sorta going off on a limb here, based on the fact that I need some bonding time between Francis and Jeanne, so I'll have to stretch the history to suit my needs. :D **

**See you soon; reviews are amazing. **


	6. Apologizes and NOTICE PLEASE READ

**Hello! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. And I guess that was a cliffhanger too. I don't really remember. **

**Anyway, I am deleting everything off this account. Stories, profile, everything. This was my first fanfiction account ever, and I cringe and get chills just thinking about someone reading some of the stuff I have on here. I was a really, really, terrible weaboo. I might be now, but at least I'm vaguely self aware. **

**However, I'm a teeny bit fond of this story, so I thought I'd tell you all before I deleted it. I'm sorta tossing around rewriting some of the chapters (but keeping the plot) and reposting them on my other account. **

**I haven't updated it months, so I understand if you all hate me and don't want me to continue this. But, if you do want me to rewrite, just leave me a review saying so, and I'll tell you when I post the first chapter and give you my other account name, 'kay? **

**If you don't want me to, say so. Honestly. And I won't. I won't get mad, or sad, or anything. Promise.**

**If any of you ever desperately need to contact me (?), here is my tumblr: hetalia-britishcooking tumblr **

**Thank you all for your patience, and I apologize for my fail. **

**With love, **

**Kellyn  
>SafetyScissors<strong>


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